


Jane Crocker and the Case of the Missing Rabbit

by arachnidstardis, NancyHartigan, Quilly, Ryo Hoshi (Hoshi_Ryo)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, F/F, F/M, Illustrated, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:10:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2235231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arachnidstardis/pseuds/arachnidstardis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NancyHartigan/pseuds/NancyHartigan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoshi_Ryo/pseuds/Ryo%20Hoshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Closely following the gruesome murder of one C. Ampora, P.I. Jane Crocker is contacted to recover a missing robot for its eccentric owner. The town of Derse isn't known for it's coincidences, and Jane soon finds that being hired by Dirk Strider is more than she bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

### Prologue

Some nights, Dirk Strider absolutely hated his job.  Most nights, to be honest, he didn’t especially like it, but then there were the nights Lord English, head of the Felt, decided that he wanted some “QUALITY TIME” with his favorite human.  Dirk knew how his finances were, and how much he couldn’t afford to offend the cherub. 

It wasn’t that he lacked savings; he had enough to survive a bit off of that, especially if he was careful.  But Derse was not a place where jobs that paid enough for him and Dave to live, especially if he wanted to keep doting on Dave, were prolific if you did not even have more than the absolute legal minimum of an education. 

Dirk would not have been working at The Green Moon if there was any other place that would have hired him when he first arrived in Derse, and it was probably too late to jump ships to even a less-sleazy club.  Dirk actually enjoyed the part of his job that made the official job descriptions; getting money to go up on stage and show off was fun, once he built enough of a rep to not be stuck during the dead times of early evening and morning.  The pay was low, but it was money, and the tips were _good_ if you had the skills and the boss let you on when there were customers who tipped. 

Dirk was pretty certain that he got the latter because Lord English had a thing for him.  It definitely wasn’t a _like_ , more like a very disturbingly sexual hate, and sometimes Dirk felt it was completely mutual.  He was not comfortable with the latter; he knew that sort of thing had a nasty tendency of going off the rails fast and hard in humans.  A few trolls had learned the hard way, and every so often one survived the experience. 

Dirk doubted that would get him that far with a cherub.  At least he could tell himself that he needed the job, needed the money, but once Lord English had taken his particular disliking to him, the odds of him managing to find a different job elsewhere pretty much went to hell. 

It might be enough to get him resigned to being one of Lord English’s favorites, but it did not manage to make him any more comfortable when the cherub did business while _he_ was there. 

Tonight’s example was Lord English sending out a couple of his minions on a hit, tossing them a photograph, the name of a coffeehouse that was pretty cool with otherkin, and the instruction to off the one with wavy horns. 

The two arrived before Dirk was recovered enough to even think about moving himself, with a tale and a picture of their victim, a violet-blooded seadweller with wavy horns and not much of a face anymore.  He recognized the alleyway as one of the ones he’d take if he wanted to visit that coffeehouse while heading out from home, and in the background was a very familiar robot bunny… 

Dirk was very much regretting ever having had pictures of a work in progress on his phone, as he felt the cherub’s claws dig enough into his scalp to draw blood.  “You.  I want your.  Rabbit.” 

“He’s probably long gone now.  His AI isn’t stupid.”  A bit too rabbity, but Dave liked it so fuck that.  “I don’t know where he would be.” 

Caliborn’s lips pulled back and he gave his men new instructions. They nodded. Dirk’s stomach curdled, but with Caliborn’s claws still in his hair, he didn’t dare react (but he wanted to, god, how he wanted to). 

_Fuck my life_. 

“…So, what do you want me to do?” he asked once they were gone. 

The claws brushed over the bare skin of his back, not quite pressing firmly enough to leave marks.  “There is a.  Private eye who has been.  Annoying.  Go hire Jane.  Crocker.  She can be.  Useful.  For once.”


	2. Intermission I

### Intermission I

[](http://imgur.com/fjZpy1i)

Roxy, 

Sorry I left so abrUptly, bUt I got a sUrprise deal on a stay in New Tahiti and had to leave fast!  (I woUld have invited yoU, of coUrse, bUt it inclUded the train ticket oUt and I knew yoU coUldn’t get time off so fast.) 

Is what I hear aboUt somebody having mUrdered an otherkin troll the night I left trUe?  How horrible!  Will yoU let me know if it gets solved before I get back?  I only heard aboUt it by accident, since it wasn’t considered too big a story oUtside Derse… 

Love,  
Callie


	3. Act I

### Act I

Your name is Detective Jane Crocker and this man has a very interesting proposition for you. 

Currently you are nursing your gin and tonic and doing your level best to focus on your potential client’s words. It’s a bit difficult, you see, because you have had a bit much tonight and the man is…well. Hardly the point. 

“—important,” he’s saying, and you shake your head a little to clear it. “Like. Mondo important. Universally important. So Important I am using a capital letter in my speech.” 

You blink. “And this hardware you’re missing…what exactly is it?” 

He reaches in his jacket pocket and lays down a somewhat battered photograph. You push your glasses up your nose and study it. Tipsy as you are, it swims a little, but it is very clearly a robotic bunny. 

You motion the bartender over and ask for the biggest bottle of water she has. You’re not so far gone that you think more of your drink will make you feel better, and you need your usual focus back. You give your client a lingering once-over as you suck down the water. 

He is unusual and it’s interesting to look at him; given his features you would have thought his skin would be much darker, but he’s practically lily-white and that makes him look exotic. His dark shades are impenetrable and his hair has clearly been chemically straightened, though you think the pale gold coloring is natural. The styling of it is unusual, as well, like something out of a Japanese cartoon. Your eyes slide down to the tight-fitting t-shirt, the worn leather jacket, the faded jeans, the cracked boots. His clothing is well-cared for, but clearly not expensive to begin with, practical and ruggedly stylish in one. That shirt is quite tight. 

You cross your legs. 

“Let me see if I have the facts straight, Mr. Strider,” you say. 

“Dirk,” he says. “Just Dirk.” 

“Dirk,” you repeat, irritability with yourself rolling over your dazed tone. “About a week ago, this rabbit you built went on the fritz and ran away. Naturally this is an expensive feat of gadgetry, so you would like him back. Is this correct?” 

He nods. You sip on your water and feel very sloshy, but not necessarily drunk anymore. 

“I have my own bills to pay, as I’m sure you do as well,” you say. “Normally my fee for a case like this is—” 

“Let me stop you right there,” he says, and then slides a check under your nose. “This about cover it, with the over half to be paid after the robot’s back in my hands?” 

You pick up the check and go very round-eyed. That is a _very_ large number. How does a man with holes in his shoes write a check this big? 

You stow your suspicions for now. “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Strider. I’ll take the case.” 

He doesn’t sigh or slump with relief, but there is a hint of satisfaction in the tilt of his mouth. 

“Thank you, Detective,” he says, leaning into your space with his hand on the small of your back like he’s afraid he won’t be heard. Your heart leaps into your throat. “This means a lot to me.” 

You _harrumph_ in your throat. “Yes. Well. I will need some facts from you, before I begin in earnest. Can we meet somewhere tomorrow to discuss further information exchange?” 

“Dinner tomorrow?” he says, and his voice is practically husky. You are very dry-mouthed and it isn’t at all fair. 

“Lunch,” you say firmly. “The Huss Cafe, on 413th. One o’clock sharp.” You stand and smooth down your dress over your hips, reaching around him for your hat and coat and getting a nose full of warm musky male. “I expect you to be forthcoming, Mr. Strider. The quicker we find this robot of yours, the quicker I’m certain your mind will be put at ease.” His expression doesn’t change but you get the oddest feeling that he’s watching your mouth as you talk. You settle your hat firmly over your hair. 

“Yes ma’am,” he says. “One o’clock, Huss Cafe. Got it.” 

“Good night, Dirk,” you say, and make your way out of the bar before you do something foolish like casually slink your dress off your shoulder and make eyes at him. What a useless thing to do. Stop thinking about it. Stop. _Stop_. 

You still have the picture of the robot rabbit, and once you’re home and showered and comfortable you run an Internet search on it. No results of any use, which is predictable but disappointing. You ignore the notice from your landlord that says RENT IS DUE BY THE 23RD NO EXCEPTIONS in blocky Sharpie letters on  your way to your Crime Wall. 

Mostly it’s a self-indulgent wall of your past successes, but the latest date on the articles is at least four months old and it was a dinky little case to begin with, involving a rather obvious murder and a mundane string of petty thefts. Boring, by all accounts, and you were jipped a paycheck. 

You pin the picture to an empty space, write out the information you know on a post-it, and pin that, as well. Then you drag a chair over to tap your pen against your mouth and think carefully about your next move. 

Lunch is in under twelve hours, during which you need to catch a few winks of sleep and do research on your client. The rabbit itself hasn’t brought anything noteworthy to your attention, but perhaps Dirk Strider could offer some light on the subject without even meaning to. Certainly a man with shades and a poker face so impenetrable is that way for a reason; once you crack him he could be an open book. 

Another Internet search turns up an empty Facebook profile created over two years ago; the only thing of any note on it is “The Green Moon” underneath his employment information. To be safe, you Google that, and find an address. It could be useful to know; you scribble it down on your notepad. 

According to Mr. Strider, the rabbit has a rudimentary AI implanted that tends toward it showing up in the oddest places, but it’s possible that there is a pattern to the thing’s madness; you just need to get Mr. Strider to give up the information, because you have no doubt he knows it. As for how to deal with the client himself, you think a no-nonsense tack is necessary. Some clients require you to be syrupy-sweet and cloying, some require briskness. You think he tends towards brisk. You should use a firm hand on him. Yes. 

You go to bed possibly still blushing. 

==>

You arrive at the cafe precisely fifteen minutes early and order yourself a cup of your favorite tea while you wait, taking absent sips while reading an old newspaper. It’s from last week or so, and the story you are currently reading is detailing a grisly alleyway murder you believe is connected to the…quarry…you’ve been tracking for quite some time. The setup, to your practiced eye, smacks of his style, at the very least—bashed-in face, evidence of violent struggle, horns with gentle waves, out-of-the-way location, and utter disregard for cleanup. You’ve no idea what this guy’s problem is with wavy-horned otherkin, but over the last several years it’s been a pattern you’ve noticed. You fought hard with the chief of police to let you oversee the cases, or at least get him to recognize that they’re relevant, but no dice. It seems that in this town, they’re content to let Caliborn walk all over everyone and everything. 

The chair across from you scrapes back, and you look up over your paper. Dirk Strider, still shaded and unfairly handsome, sits down and quirks the barest smile at you. 

“Hey.” 

“Good afternoon,” you say, because you are a polite woman and it’s better than the breathy “hey” that almost escaped your idiotic mouth. “Are you hungry?” 

“Nah,” he says, and then his stomach audibly rumbles. He gives you a wry grin. “I’m good.” 

You call a waiter over and order a club sandwich. The waiter nods and refreshes your tea. 

“Well, Mr. Strider—” 

“Detective, please,” he says, “call me Dirk.” 

“Mr. Strider,” you say firmly, “I am assuming, since you showed up, you are still eager to have your rabbit returned?” 

He nods. 

“Then I need you to answer a few questions,” you say. “Just the facts, no embellishment.” 

“I’ll do my best,” he says with a hint of a laugh. 

“Good,” you say, and when the waiter brings your sandwich you take a bite. “Mr. Strider, when did you last see your rabbit?” 

“Last Sunday, maybe the Saturday before,” he says. 

“Where?” 

“Home.” 

“Which is…?” 

[](http://imgur.com/y9QrkKI)

“If you want to come back to my place, Detective, you just have to say so,” he says, and you purse your lips.  You push the sandwich at him. 

“You said the rabbit has an AI, correct? Does it respond to commands, or is it more independant?” 

“He’s pretty crazy-smart,” he says, and you see that he’s eating the sandwich. “But I can get him to do some stuff if I use my mean voice. This isn’t the first time he’s run away.” 

“Did it have any places that it liked hanging out?” you say. “Any favorite haunts or hiding places?” 

He swallows what you are astonished to see is the last bite of the sandwich and nods. 

“I can draw you up a list.” 

“It would be more efficient if you just showed me,” you say, and stand up, pad and pen tucked into your pocket. “I would like to ask you more questions about the rabbit’s behavior.” 

His face is maddeningly neutral, but he stands and begins walking next to you. “Shoot.” 

“What is the rabbit typically like?” 

“Mischievous little guy,” he says. “But crazy-loyal. It’s not like him to be gone this long.” 

“You keep referring to it as him,” you say. “Does he have a name?” 

“He answers to Li’l Seb,” Dirk says, with a definitely amused quirk to his mouth. “Short for Li’l Sebastian.” 

You chose the Huss Cafe for a reason, and you see with satisfaction that your hunch was correct; it’s in the poorer district of town, a little more downtown from where you live and right around the corner from some of the slum neighborhoods of Derse City, where Dirk is currently leading you towards. The first place he shows you is a rusty playground, and you make a note of the location. The second is a long-closed arcade with several games still inside. Down the list of places he goes, until, at the very last, he shows you an alley. 

“I dunno, sometimes I’d find him hiding behind the trash cans here,” he says, and you frown, examining the alley carefully. Something is pinging your memory about this place, something— 

There is still an impressive violet splatter against the bricks, a little behind the trash cans you guess no one bothered to move at the time. 

“This is where that Cronus Ampora murder occurred,” you say, and out of the corner of your eye you see Dirk stiffen. “That was also last Sunday.” 

“Weird,” he says, though you detect a tremor in his normally-cool voice. 

“Yes,” you say, “very weird.” You walk until you’re standing right where the body was lying for hours, and look up at the blank walls, the backs of abandoned businesses and empty apartments. Very convenient place for a murder, you think, especially one as undoubtedly noisy as poor unfortunate Mr. Ampora’s. From this angle, dumpsters could even conceal the deed from the street. 

And…possibly…plenty of hiding spaces to conceal a robot bunny. 

“What features was Li’l Seb equipped with?” you ask. “For instance, did he have a recording function?” 

“Yes.” Dirk’s voice is clipped. “What does this have to do with finding him?” 

“Would it be possible for him to take a video and post it online, for instance?” you ask. 

“What does this have to do with finding him?” he repeats. 

“We could possibly see if he’s posted anything and track his IP,” you say, though your mind is on other matters. It would be a stretch, possibly even folly, to connect the rabbit’s disappearance with a terrible murder on such circumstantial evidence, but if only there was a way to find out for certain…unless… 

“Mr. Strider, is it possible the rabbit could be implicated in the murder that happened here?” you ask, watching very closely for his reaction. Guarded as he is, it will be difficult, but you are no stranger to interpreting your clients for information they themselves are not aware of giving away. 

Hesitation as he opens his mouth. Thinking about his answer. Not a long hesitation, but noticeable. Or maybe you’re just too invested in his lips, but the pause is still there. Shifting his weight. Hands possibly clenching in his jacket pockets? 

“Not a chance,” he says smoothly. 

“If this is a place he’s known to go often, and he hasn’t been seen since the same night as someone died a violent death here, is it possible, the tiniest bit possible, that Li’l Seb recorded something he shouldn’t have and was either taken or went on the run?” you ask. “It’s a lead to consider—” 

“No, it’s not,” Dirk says, just a little bit too fast and harsh. He seems to realize it, and saunters your way. You drag your eyes away from his hips. “Listen, Detective, I know you gumshoe types are probably all up in arms about this murder case, since nobody seems to be able to solve it, but trust me, I’m just looking for my rabbit.” He tilts his head. “And that rabbit could be anywhere. It’d be a waste of time to assume he was here if there’s no proof.” 

He makes sense, you think grudgingly. 

You deliberately walk around him and out of the alley. 

“Any other places you can think to show me?” you say. “Places he’d be more likely to be?” 

“Everything I know I already told you,” he says. 

“Thank you,” you say, and look up at him. He’s very tall. “I will be in touch when I have more information for you.” 

“No, thank you,” he says, and what is it with him invading your personal space, and why do you like it? “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

You almost snort. Here’s a real mystery, Detective Crocker: why is your client flirting with you, particularly in the exact moment when you express interest in exploring a possible lead? 

Not that it’s an ineffective strategy. 

You smile and turn around, walking back to the Huss Cafe to wait at least half an hour before returning to the alley to snoop. You need a clear head for this. 

You’re no Terezi Pyrope, a detective in the same line of work as you who has a literal nose for her job, but you know how to look at dirt and identify the general types of footprints you’re looking at. Unfortunately, anything useful was possibly obliterated by the cleanup crews and forensics team. No tiny flat-footed footprints in sight. You frown and look around the mouth of the alley for any residents that would know about Li’l Seb, but even after you find and question several, you are going nowhere fast. 

You’re not foolish, and you check the other areas Dirk sent you thoroughly, but the people who even know about the rabbit give you the same answer: they haven’t seen him in a while, at least a week. With trail after trail going cold, you’re stuck toying with the idea of Li’l Seb witnessing the Ampora murder. Dirk’s single-minded determination to steer you away from that line of inquiry could just be usual paranoia; no one wants to be mixed up in something like that. 

You return to the alley and stare hard at the darkening bricks. 

“Looking for something, missy?” 

You jump, startled, and look at a small, kindly little carapacian dressed in a faded bathrobe printed with faded ghosts and a sash that says MAYOR in crayon letters. You frown. 

“Admiring the view,” you say, and the carapacian laughs, a high, squeaky sound. 

“This old alley,” he says. “Gotten so much attention since that nasty business with the murder and all.” 

“Do you visit here often?” you ask. 

“Sure do,” he says. “I live on the tippy-top floor up there.” He points at one of the buildings shadowing the alley. “The city takes my trash here every Thursday.” 

“Did you ever happen to see a robotic bunny hanging around here?” you ask. “He might have answered to Li’l Seb?” 

“Oh, Huggybear,” the carapacian smiles, bobbing his little round head. “Yes, he’d come by quite a bit to wrestle with the cats back here. Loathsome cats, you see, tipping over my trash cans and making a ruckus.” 

“Was he here last Sunday?” you ask. “It would have been about the time the murder happened.” 

“Let’s see,” the carapacian says, “I had a bridge game with some of my old war buddies that night, but I remember I came downstairs to take out my garbage…yes, I do believe Huggybear was there, but that was still when the sun was out, so I’m afraid I don’t know how long he stayed.” 

“Thank you,” you say, and as an afterthought, “I like your robe.” 

He beams, pats your arm, and trundles into the building you could have sworn was empty. You frown after him, then at the alley. 

Dirk Strider does not want you connecting the rabbit to this alley,  but a testament from an unlikely source connects them anyway in the same day the murder took place. You know for a fact that if the perpetrator of the murder wanted to get rid of Li’l Seb for witnessing something, he probably could. You tap your pen against your mouth, then head for home. You want to check something. 

Perhaps, you think as you flip through what could be classified as a scrapbook, your focus has been on the wrong aspect of the case. Maybe you should be looking more closely at the man feeding you your information, but first… 

Caliborn, a cherub, malignant red and crime boss with roots in Derse City that run for literal miles. Known murderer and thief, impossible to catch, it seems. Official hideout is unknown, but according to a useful source, he sometimes frequents strip clubs to heckle the workers. 

Not sure why that’s relevant, but as you check over your notes you find the scribble about The Green Moon and begin to wonder if, maybe, The Green Moon is one of his hangouts. 

A missing rabbit with intelligence and recording capabilities…an unsolved and violent murder…a cruel cherub…a man doing everything in his power to stop you from ruling out the connection as possible by investigating it… 

You often admire how honest people are when the truth is shocked or scared out of them. Perhaps it’s time you paid a visit to your client before he has time to formulate what story or strategy he’s going to feed you. 

You root through your closet and pull out a dress you haven’t worn in a while because you haven’t had a date in a while, to be honest; it’s a little tight, but you’ve always liked how the red makes your skin look and how the cut flatters your figure. You curl your hair and put on lipstick and slide into your favorite black pumps. Perhaps, if you show up looking your best, at the very least you could embarrass an answer out of him. 

And, well, if he thinks something else entirely about how you look other than terrible, it could also work in your favor.


	4. Intermission II

### Intermission II

[](http://imgur.com/rVAb1NU)

callie!!! , 

no worries bby u knwo my boss is a D I K C dick like a stickler 4 the rules an shit so hed never let me out just cause my bffsy got a SWEET DEAL BRO on vacacay time lol i just hope ur havin a blast and that u enjoy ur time in the sun :3 

yeah it was so sad ): cro was a real nice guy if a bit handsy and im gonna miss his weird songs but yeah bby ill keep u up 2 date on the shenanigans here!! seems like someones tryin 2 keep it on the hush hush lvl 

hugs n kisses n all dat shit  
roxy <3


	5. Act II

### Act II

The Green Moon is inside an older building, but looks surprisingly well-kept, a long spotless white building with a green tin roof. You frown at it, since it will do terrible things to your cell reception, but think that, well, it’s not like you have anyone you need to inform as to your whereabouts anyway. You spare a thought for John and dash it away. 

The process of getting inside is fairly mundane, although it does grate a little that you can’t begin scoping out your surroundings until you’re already in, thanks to a hallway. The inside is painted black and contrasts with the outside of the building, though the furnishings are white and bright green and surprisingly tasteful. The stage, which right now is hosting a curly-horned troll in red doing something positively backbreaking on the pole, is green and well-lit; the only lights in the place are on the stages dotted around the club. A white wall and green curtain separate the main room from the private rooms, opposite a green bar bustling with drunks. From what you can observe, the clientele is far from rich, but it doesn’t appear that the worst-off of them are in the depths of poverty, either. You scan behind the bar but don’t see Dirk. 

You find an empty table and daintily seat yourself down, watching the servers, only slightly more clad than the dancers, weave between the patrons. It’s a little difficult to keep from staring slack-jawed at all the employees; not only are they mostly naked, but they all seem to be as unfairly and even exotically gorgeous as Dirk. Not in the same ways, of course, but it certainly is interesting to see what appears to be a double-bulged troll in little more than crisscrossing leather straps all down his body entertaining a table. 

You stop a passing server dressed as a sexy cat from her horns down. “Excuse me, but is Dirk Strider here?” 

The server giggles. “Sure is! He’s with a clawent right meow. Want me to get him?” 

Your brows contract, then smooth. “No, thank you.” 

“Can I get mew anything?” 

Out of habit you order a gin and tonic, but your thoughts are in a whirl. Alright. Maybe you had a little bit of an assumption that Dirk was more like a bouncer or a bartender here, not an actual stripper. But it’s not much of a plan adjustment, you just have to continue to be cool and professional. 

The cat-girl brings you your drink, tosses her mass of hair over her shoulder, and as she walks behind you you hear her giggle again. 

“Hey, Dirky, there’s a pretty little kitten over there waiting on mew!” 

“Work, work, work,” a familiar voice drawls, clearly amused. “Thanks, Meulin.” 

You take a long sip of your gin and wait for him to come to you. 

“Detective Crocker?” 

You raise your eyes out of your glass and into an eyeful of _wow_ that is something. That is. Certainly something. It. Is that a piercing in it? 

[](http://imgur.com/l3G7tk6)

“Yo. Eyes up here.” 

Flushing, you make yourself look up, up, up, into Dirk’s face. He’s still wearing the shades, unbelievably; you wonder if anything in the world could make him take it off. Them. Them off. He’s not wearing much to take off anyway. Not like you want him to.  You very firmly tell yourself not to look at his junk again. 

“What’s up?” he says. “Did you find Li’l Seb?” 

Right. Business. You pull yourself together. 

“No,” you say. “I’m having trouble tracking him down. Nobody seems to have seen him, and there have been no reports of a robot bunny in any official police reports this week.” 

He sits down ( _thank gog_ ) and frowns, adjusting the straps of whatever ridiculous thing he has on, you don’t know how to begin to describe it. “What else do you need from me? I’ve told you everything I know.” 

You study his face, take in the faint smell of sweat and someone else’s perfume or cologne, the body glitter, the lines of his chest, the muscle in his arms—no, back on target, Crocker, keep your dry spell and all metaphors comparing _your client_ to a tall glass of water to the back of your mind at all times. 

“I very much doubt that,” you say. 

He leans forward, scooting the chair closer, and your heart pounds harder. 

“So you came all the way out here,” he says, sliding one of his hands on your thigh, “dressed up fit to kill, just to finagle some information out of me?” His fingers just barely brush your inner thigh. You shiver, then frown, then lean into it. 

“Maybe I did,” you say, and think that this is perhaps the strangest game of chicken you have ever played. You wait, though, trailing your hand over his wrist, wondering what he’s going to do next. “Maybe I was just in the neighborhood.” 

“Not the best neighborhood to be in,” he says. “If I was any kind of decent gentleman I’d offer you a ride home.” 

“I’d have to invite you in for a drink,” you say. “It’d only be polite.” 

“We could always go to my place instead,” he says. “It’s closer, if a drink is all you need.” 

The heat coming off his body is almost unbearable. You are having a very hard time not looking at his mouth and his abs and most other parts of his body that you very much would like to explore in great detail. 

“I think I’d like that,” you say. 

“Good,” Dirk murmurs. “Around now is when I get off.” 

Abruptly he stands and walks away, and you sit back in your chair and take a large gulp of your drink. The burn wakes you up, and you scan the room, looking for someone who might…ah. Meulin’s coming back. 

You touch her arm again, and she _grins_. 

“What can you tell me about Dirk Strider?” you ask. 

“Other than he’s soooo about to take you home with him?” she purrs. You twist your mouth. 

“Seriously.” 

“Seriously?” she repeats, and taps her mouth. “Let’s see…well, to be clawnest, Dirky’s kind of a private sort of cat, y’know? Keeps to himself.” 

You frown. “Thank you.” 

“Oh!” she snaps her fingers. “But he does have a kid!” 

A. A what? 

“Excuse me?” 

“A kid,” Meulin says, and her voice becomes very stern and almost deadly. “That little guy is the cutest kit on the face of the planet. Dirk has to bring him in sometimes when there’s nobody to watch him.” 

“Uh-huh,” you say dumbly. You really don’t know what to think. 

“Come to think of it,” Meulin interrupts your daze, “I haven’t seen Davey around in a while. I wonder if Dirky got a babysitter for real this time.” 

You swallow, smile and thank Meulin again for her time. Dirk appears at your elbow without you noticing, because you are busy fighting off your shock and a haze of flashbacks of the last time you found out someone had a kid… 

“Wow, I’m gone ten minutes and you space on me,” Dirk says, and you jump a little. “Ready?” 

You stand, nod, and try to smile. Dirk studies you, then slips an arm around your waist. His fingers massage little circles into your skin and pull you right out of your fog. 

His apartment really isn’t far, just a couple of blocks (and, if your navigation is correct, another block from the alley). The walk there is oddly tense and quiet; Dirk keeps a hand on you at all times, usually either around your waist or on your back, even when unlocking the door. 

“Here it is,” he says, “Casa de Strider.” He tosses his keys on the nearby kitchen counter, and as he’s taking off his jacket you do a quick sweep of the apartment. Small, cluttered, a definite mancave, though cleaner than you’d expected. Robot parts all over the coffee table, including spare ears, so Li’l Seb definitely came from here. You look in the kitchen and see a cabinet door open, inside of which are a collection of Sesame Street sippy cups. 

Your mouth opens before your brain catches up. “Sippy cups, huh? Aren’t they a little juvenile for you?” 

You are not expecting your question to be met by Dirk flashstepping in front of you and kissing you. 

To his credit, he is good at it, and you’re not going to pretend you didn’t want it; before you can even stop to think about what it is you’re doing and why this isn’t a good idea you are tipping backwards onto the couch, grunting as his weight lands on you before he lifts himself up and resumes putting his tongue in your mouth. You make out furiously for a few minutes before the shades get in the way and you take them off his face, but he doesn’t let you see what color they are and you don’t care, grabbing his head and hauling it back down. His hands are everywhere, and if you don’t clear your head, if you don’t stop it soon— 

You wait until his hands are halfway up your dress before you put your hands on his shoulders and firmly shove back. 

Dirk takes the cue and stops. His hands trail back down, but his breathing is irregular and you can quite clearly tell he wasn’t ready to stop yet. You weren’t, either. Your brain is screaming at you what an idiot you are, but you had a mission, and the mission is not having what you know would be mind-blowing sex with your client. 

“A witness put Li’l Seb in the alley the same day as the murder,” you say, and watch as Dirk’s eyes (orange, huh) go from blown and aroused to sharp and concentrated. “It’s very possible that Li’l Seb’s disappearance is linked. I understand that it’s a scary thing to consider, but if there’s any possible chance that that’s the case, we should be pursuing that line of inquiry.” You wipe at your mouth, hoping you’re getting all the lipstick smudges; Dirk’s mouth is covered in it. Your mind gives a last wail of protest before you squash it down. You’re in business mode now. No going back until you work this out. 

“You came all the way out here to tell me that?” Dirk says, but he doesn’t sound angry. He doesn’t sound like anything. Flat, emotionless. “Why does it matter?” 

“Because if they’re linked, then it’s possible your rabbit is in the hands of a mob boss and will be very hard to retrieve,” you say. “It might even be possible that he recorded the whole crime, maybe saw exactly who did it and could finally, _finally_ give the police something concrete linking Caliborn to a crime he committed.” You stand up and pace, because as much as you want Dirk, you know that you want Caliborn behind bars even more. “Maybe he committed the crime with his own hands for once, that would be spectacular…” 

You glance at Dirk. He’s…staring at his hands, with his head down. Slowly he reaches for his shades from where you tossed them and puts them back on his face. 

“I can think of maybe one other place where he could be hiding,” Dirk says. “If he isn’t captured like you said.” From the tone of his voice, he doesn’t think so. 

You take a closer look at the apartment, now that you’re not distracted quite so thoroughly. Most of the doors are open, except one, which looks like it has a small shirt stuffed underneath it (not purposely; more like it was simply in the way when a careless man or little boy was closing it). There’s another sippy cup in the sink, an Elmo-print one. Now that you think about it, as much as you enjoy impromptu makeouts, the timing was strange. Not even a pause to make an offhand comment about the child that obviously lives here going to live with his mother, or with a relative or babysitter? No mention at all? You decide not to show your whole hand just yet, see if maybe Dirk’s just being a hyper-protective parent. 

Why invite a strange woman over if the place had evidence all over of a child is what you also want to know, but you digress. 

“One other place,” you say absently. “If he was hiding, you mean.” 

“Yeah,” Dirk says, and then swears. “It’s kind of far to walk.” 

“No problem,” you say. “I can drive.” 

Dirk quirks his eyebrows, then shrugs. 

“Alright, Detective, your call,” he says, and holds the door open for you. You adjust your skirt as you walk out of the apartment and try not to mournfully think again of just how long it’s been since the last time you even kissed someone, let alone did the nasty. 

Strapping on your gun helps, though the effect is somewhat ruined by Dirk very obviously eying your leg holster with a trace smile on his face.


	6. Intermission III

### Intermission III

[](http://imgur.com/Lgv0BL2)

Roxy, 

That woUld be absolUtely fabUloUs!  I’m qUite sorry to hear that it was CronUs, especially since I saw him the night he died.  He was qUite the character and I am sUre he will be remembered. 

I do hope his mUrderer will be foUnd soon, it soUnds like I had very good lUck in with vacation.  The sUn here is qUite pleasantly mild compared to in Derse, and the ferry is a lovely sight at dUsk.  I may see if I can pUt off my retUrn, it is a wonderfUl place to work. 

Love,  
Callie


	7. Act III

### Act III

The last-ditch try is a warehouse, and you have a bad feeling about it when you see the old-timey Cadillac parked to the side. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, you reason as you turn off your car. You’re just glad you found an old pair of sneakers in your trunk by your gun. 

“When was the last time Li’l Seb was here?” you ask. 

“Probably a month ago,” Dirk says. “Like I said, it’s a long shot, but if he was trying to hide instead of just running away, I would bet that he’d go somewhere where no one would look for him.” 

You’ve been watching Dirk out of the corner of your eye on the drive here, and his jaw has been tight since leaving his apartment. You’d be flattered to think it’s at the thought of not getting to sleep with you, but you know that’s not it; nobody should look _frightened_ at the prospect of not getting in your pants. You think you’re getting better at interpreting his body language. Must be how intensely you’ve been studying his body lately. 

You motion for silence, and get out of the car, being as quiet with the doors as you can be. The warehouse has a side door that’s unlocked; you go in relatively unheard, though the hinges squeak terribly. Inside is not dark like you thought, and that should have been your first clue. But Dirk silently appears beside you and startles you, which drives the thought out of mind for a few moments too long. 

You snake behind crates and along catwalks, until you find yourself stumbling right into the main area, and into what appears to be a poker game between four carapacians. 

Four very angry and well-dressed carapacians who have just pulled guns. 

You reach for yours, but Dirk grabs your arm. 

“What,” the second-shortest spits, “are you doin’ in my hideout?” 

You open your mouth. 

“Sorry, fellas,” Dirk says, and you realize his arm is around you again, “me and my girl were just looking for a place to bang.” 

He says it so smoothly you find yourself nodding along before it registers. You continue nodding and try to look like you’re actually with him. The biggest carapacian leers and winks. The second-tallest doesn’t lower his gun, but frowns. The other three lower their weapons slightly. 

“Bang?” the littlest one says. “I don’t see how, you guys don’t have pots or anything that would make a lot of noise.” 

“That’s not what they mean,” the second-tallest deadpans. 

“With a gun?” the second-shortest scoffs. 

“Yeah,” Dirk says. “Thought we’d play a little Russian roulette. Get the adrenaline pumping. She _really_ gets off on danger.” He’s talking so fast you can barely understand him, but so steadily he doesn’t sound at all scared. “Come on, buddy, I had no idea this was your place. Cut a guy some slack.” 

“It would be a pain to clean up after both of them,” the second-tallest says quietly, though the look on his face says he doesn’t mind at all. 

“I hate cleanin’,” the second-shortest grimaces. “Alright, look here, meatbag, I’mma give you to the count of three. If you’re not outta here, I’m gonna let Hearts rip yer arms off. Capisce?” 

“Of course, man, you got it,” Dirk says. “You’re a handsome man, wonderful man.” 

“One,” he says, and the two of you make like a banana and split, for lack of a better metaphor. 

Once in your car and driving away faster than is strictly legal, you release a breath. 

“I thought we were about to die back there,” you say. 

“We were,” Dirk says. “That was the Midnight Crew.” 

“Oh,” you say, and feel stupid for not noticing sooner. “I haven’t had the pleasure of cleaning up their messes before.” 

“Probably because they’re the laziest mobsters of all time,” Dirk says flatly. “They only get into skirmishes with the Felt now and then.” 

“You know the Felt?” you say. “And Caliborn?” 

“Know _of_ them, lady, I’m poor,” he says, and his voice definitely has an edge. 

“Well, we found out one thing,” you say. 

“Hmm?” 

“Li’l Seb is most likely not in that warehouse,” you say. “Which means we’re back at square one.” 

“Worth a shot,” Dirk says, and sits back. You don’t say anything until you pull up by his apartment, then put your car in park. 

“Listen, Dirk,” you say, “I just…want to say thank you. For saving my life back there.” 

He studies you behind his dark shades for a while. You hold his gaze, even if you can’t quite see it. 

“No prob,” he says. “Getting girls into scrapes and then getting out of them, that’s my specialty.” 

You grin. “We are safe, though.” 

“Safe is relative.” 

“Relative to getting shot at, or relative to being free to use Sesame Street sippy cups?” you tease. Dirk’s mouth, which was looking a little bit like a smile, flattens again. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I prefer to use my sippy cups in peace.” 

He gets out of the car then. 

“Good night, Detective.” 

“Jane,” you say. “Call me Jane.” 

His mouth twitches. 

“Good night, Jane.” 

Then he shuts the door. You watch him enter his apartment building, then drive off, sighing to yourself and wondering, despite everything, why he continued to as good as lie about the fact that he has a son. 

==>

You figure that the best way to know for certain about the existence of a child is to ask someone who would really know. You stop to wonder why it’s any of your business, then reason that it’s because you hate being lied to. You’ve been getting nowhere with the missing bunny case and it’s frustrating you. Time to solve one of the smaller mysteries that don’t matter as much. 

Not like Dirk being a father really _does_ matter. As soon as you find the bunny you’ll probably never see him again. 

You choose to ignore how much you don’t like that prospect by knocking on the door of the landlord of Dirk’s apartment. It opens, and to your surprise, it’s the carapacian with the robe and the sash. 

“Hello again!” he says cheerfully. “Any luck with that rabbit?” 

“Not a bit,” you say, pleased despite yourself. “Actually, I have more questions for you.” 

“Not about to arrest me, I hope,” the carapace says, and laughs merrily as you chuckle and make your way into his office. “Call me Mr. Mayor, Miss…?” 

“Crocker,” you say. “Jane Crocker, private investigator. I was wondering what you can tell me about the possibility of a child living with Dirk Strider.” 

“Possibility?” the carapacian huffs. “Certainty!” He opens a desk drawer. “Let me see here, I know I have a picture of the scalawag here somewhere…here!” He pulls out a dogeared photo of an adorable little kid, about four or five, wearing triangular shades like Dirk’s. The child looks remarkably like him, down to the half-smile that probably isn’t a real smile at all but seems like one. You squint at what the kid is holding, then blink. It’s Li’l Seb. 

“Haven’t seen either one since Sunday, I’m afraid,” Mr. Mayor sighs. “It’s such a shame, Dave is an engaging little youngster. Dirk says Dave is staying with a different babysitter this week, though he looked angry when he said it.” Mr. Mayor laces his fingers together and sighs a fond sigh. “Neither of those boys are any good at concealing what they truly think, you know. Open books, both of them, when you know what to look for.” 

“Yes,” you say absently, staring at the picture. “Thank you, Mr. Mayor.” You give the picture back, and Mr. Mayor fondly smoothes his fingers over it. 

“Miss Detective,” he says as you stand to go, “if those boys have gotten into some trouble…if something is wrong…” 

“I’m sure they’re fine, Mr. Mayor,” you say, smiling sweetly. Mr. Mayor looks at you levelly. 

“You may want to work on your own poker face, my dear,” he says, and shoos you out. 

You sit in your car for a moment and think, your head spinning. 

Dirk lied—outright lied—about whose sippy cups those were, and by extension he lied about having a son. He distracted you from investigating the link between his rabbit’s disappearance and the unsolved Felt-linked murder, he nearly got you both killed by the Midnight Crew, and you’re _tired_ of trying to solve your client and your case at the same time. You prefer your mystery at one end of the case, not both. You drive towards The Green Moon, now thoroughly riled and intent on giving Dirk Strider a piece of your mind. 

The bouncer doesn’t look surprised to see you back, winking at you. You smile thinly and storm into the club, looking all around. The curly-haired troll from earlier is behind the bar now, Meulin is serving drinks…Dirk is onstage now, getting bills tucked into his tiny shorts, and you sit in a chair and fume as you watch him. Is it possible to be angry and turned on at the same time? You think you’re managing. 

He sees you, you know he does, because he misses a step in his routine. He recovers, doing things to the pole that would be driving you up a wall if you weren’t busy formulating exactly what you’re going to say. 

Finally his act is done, and he exits backstage and is standing next to you within a few moments. 

“Jane,” he says, and no, you are not going to be distracted by his sexy voice and his milky thighs and his amazing abs, because you are _angry_ now. 

“I have a bone to pick with you,” you say, and ignore the suggestive rise of his eyebrows. “You lied to me.” 

“I’m sorry we didn’t actually play Russian roulette last night,” he says, and he’s still using a voice that says to you “calm down and let me do things to your body” and _no_. You very much want to slap him across the face, but know this is not the time. 

“I want you to explain to me why Dave hasn’t been reported missing,” you say, and Dirk’s little smile slides right off his face. He suddenly looks carved from steel. He grabs your arm and roughly jerks you forward. 

“Outside,” he says. “Two minutes.” 

In two minutes exactly you are in the back alley of the club and Dirk is at least wearing pants, moving with a casual grace that puts you on edge and hints of that smile. It looks…smug. 

So you slap him. 

He grabs your wrist and roughly pushes you against one of the walls, glowering. 

[](http://imgur.com/48HTEKc)

“I did my research,” you say. “And I know. Dave is your kid. He’s been missing at least as long as Li’l Seb.” You adjust, trying to get your wrist free and find an angle on the brick that isn’t quite so uncomfortable, but Dirk and the wall both are unyielding. “The sippy cups are his. The room with the shut door is his. What I want to know is why there’s no missing child alert out on him and where he is, because you know.” 

He looks at you, mouth twisting, fear very obvious on his face, and you feel bad for insinuating that he might have gotten rid of the boy, but hold your ground. He has to know how serious that looks. A robot bunny is one thing. In the grand scheme of things, trivial. A child, on the other hand… 

“Babysitter,” he says tersely. 

“Dirk,” you say, “do you think I’m a complete idiot?” 

You jerk your wrist free. He takes a step back. 

“Your usual babysitter is gone,” you say. “When you can’t get them to watch him, you bring him with you to work. There’s no way you would leave him with someone you didn’t know, because that’s not the kind of parent you are, and you don’t know very many people, certainly none you trust.” 

“How would you know?” he asks, very quietly. 

“You built a robot shaped like a bunny,” you say. “And you take care of a child, and you work as a stripper. I’m going on conjecture here, but I am almost positive you don’t have very many friends, at least not around here.” 

“Thin conjecture,” he grunts. 

“But I’m right,” you say, taking his silence as affirmation. “You don’t associate with your coworkers outside of work and you don’t do much besides work and spend time with Dave. So why, Dirk,” you say, putting on your own quiet deadly voice, “is there not a fleet of police officers looking for a child you obviously love very much?” 

His mouth bows. His face sweats. You have him cornered. 

You just wish it didn’t feel like you’re doing something unforgivable to him. 

==>

Dirk’s fingers twitch, curling.  He misses his sword, but right now it’s safer to have it well out of his reach.  He might be tempted into doing something stupid, like attempting a rescue or…  She is sharp, yes, and somehow has managed to _not_ be distracted, despite all his efforts, from the mystery of the missing kid. 

She is, annoyingly, getting distracted by that from the mystery of the missing robot bunny, and it’s frustrating.  She might have one hell of a hot ass, but his is still aching from convincing Caliborn to give him more time. 

Caliborn is simply not a patient cherub. 

“We’re not talking about this here,” he says, and Jane looks at him carefully and nods. The walk back to his apartment, funnily enough, feels just like the first time he took her there; tense, quiet, and involving Dirk pointedly not staring at her ass whenever she walks ahead. He doesn’t open his mouth until the door to the apartment is shut. 

“I hired you to find my bunny, not investigate me,” he points out, settling on the couch.  It had been one of the first things he’d hauled up from the Lair of Abandoned Furniture, and Dirk could remember very well that first afternoon after he had gotten their salvaged screen working, Dave drinking apple juice from his Big Bird sippy cup and leaning against him as they watched imported classic episodes of _Sesame Street_ together… 

Dirk misses that already.  He isn’t even that sure what to do with himself if he loses Dave. 

There is not really any choice.  He is not finding Li’l Seb at this rate, and this gumshoe is good enough that the cherub is annoyed with her. 

And judging by the look she’s giving him, she’s annoyed with him, as well, and Dirk shrugs, deciding to address her earlier question. 

“Caliborn won’t give him back until I give him the bunny.”  Dirk hesitates, considering just how much he wants to admit about the lengths he went to make sure he had the money to spoil Dave.  “It’s as simple as that.” 

He feels the couch shift as Jane sits beside him.  “So Li’l Seb was a witness, and Caliborn is holding Dave?   How long did he give you?” 

Dirk carefully doesn’t say a thing.  Caliborn is not known for patience, and Dirk had already had to buy time.  If she really needs him to tell her how exactly ‘not enough’ was the time he had originally been given… 

“…So, we need a plan to get Dave back fast.” 

Atta girl. He knew there was a reason he liked her, other than her awesome butt.


	8. Intermission IV

### Intermission IV

Dave wasn't aware of what was going on, really. Why would he, if someone really thought about it. 

He was happy to see his brother during his visits, and during the times in between there was definitely enough to do. 

Except for, well, today. 

You could only play video games for so long before they lost interest anyway. He tossed his controller to its respective corner, cross legged on his chair. This was going to suck. All of his attention was going to be going toward trying to find some entertainment for a while. 

The first stop was the kitchen, to which he found his babysitters to be too busy to deal with him. 

“Eggs, play Uno with me.” 

He simply got a blank, milky stare and he frowned before muttering “Whatever,” and wandering away toward the stairs. 

“Stitch show me how to fix stuff.” 

The large leprechaun turned his head and started to work on the Cairo Coat. Dave reached for the pincushion and got his hand slapped away. 

“I'm helping.” Dave reached for it again, just for Stitch to slap it away again. “Or not.” 

“Child you can't have sharps.” 

“Fine.” Dave hopped down to wander back to his room, plopping into his chair to sulk and think. His eyes dragged across the room until they zeroed in on the yellow box in the corner. 

Crayons were fun, the walls were too green anyway, so he decided one day to turn his room purple. 

So, he grabbed it, started by his bed, and got to work. He started with drawing a line as close as he could to his mattress, and then swept it along as large as he could, going back and forth to make large, thick lines of blue-violet in his wake. 

He peeled the wrapping as he went, the crayon breaking at the effort several times, but he managed to get about a third of the way through the wall before he ran out. Well, violet-blue had to be close enough. 

Why did this look like it was different? Oh well. 

One might wonder how Dave got to the higher parts of the walls. The answer was the desk and chairs. In that order. 

He surveyed his room, satisfied with all the lines. It was weird with all the green still sticking through, but it made such a nice break from the green everywhere. 

He grinned when he saw his brother, feet kicking back in forth on his desk. “You're here! Do you like my room?” 

Dirk's silence seemed to be taken as a good thing and the small Strider hopped down to go hug him.


	9. Act IV

### Act IV

Dirk is getting to have seriously mixed feelings about his ability to keep his voice nice and level.  On one hand, it came in useful very, very often.  On the other hand, he would really like to stop having to do things like convince customers that he really was enjoying the parts of his job that hadn’t been on the official descriptions, or Caliborn of practically anything. 

“I’ve got the bunny.  I’ve already stripped it down, aside from its memory.  What do you want me to do?” 

There is a bit of a pause, as he hears Crowbar relay the message. 

“Boss says bring it and the detective in.  Tell her you’re getting the rest of the cash to pay her with, she’s gonna want her money fast, yeah?” 

“Yeah.  That’s all?” 

“Don’t worry, you’ll get to be with Dave again.”  Crowbar hangs up. 

Dirk puts the phone down on the counter carefully, beside the cardboard box that two metallic bunny ears are poking out of, the top not entirely closed yet, before looking over to Jane.  “He wants you to come along, too.” 

That it’s a trap is obvious, really. 

He wonders only a little when she hugs him, mostly because he knows he needs it.  His arms slip around her, somehow feeling very natural despite never really having held somebody like this before—Dave is too young, and the customers just…  He rests his chin on her head, gently, feeling strangely reassured.  “Jane…” 

“It’s going to be fine.  We’re going to get Dave back, right?” 

“…Right.”  He still is not in a hurry to let go of her.  “We’ll work out later how I pay you the rest?  Maybe in services…?” 

The blush is amazing, and distracts him a little from how his hands have wandered down of their own accord to caress her nicely plush rump.  One of the few things about his job’s unofficial parts that haven’t been so bad is discovering just what he likes, and his hands know what to do.  They usually don’t have a mind of their own, though. 

Dirk isn’t sure how he feels about her leaning a little more into him as she says, “I won’t take that as payment.”  Is she rejecting the implied specific services, or just them as payment? 

He might like it, if she doesn’t want him feeling forced. 

[](http://imgur.com/JCCIUbK)

==>

It is the bright, empty part of the afternoon when they arrive at the Felt Mansion.  Most people stay inside during this part of the day in Derse, even the natives.  It’s the perfect time of day to have somebody visit, if you want to have few witnesses who’d think anything of not seeing your guests leave. 

Dirk knows Jane will probably have some questions later, but the service entrance at least uses a keycode, so he doesn’t have a key to explain away.  With a security system like the one at the Felt Mansion, it’s common enough for a temporary keycode to be given to people expected to be in and out quickly enough to not give them a regular key, and the system probably was set to tell Caliborn he was there when he used his code. 

They keep to the servants’ passages.  He knows that if any of the Felt are watching the security system, they’re likely to take it as him simply wanting to keep Jane in the dark a little longer, since the service entrance is placed so it looks like it belongs to the neighboring mansion.  Dirk simply likes them, though; the walls are unfinished, lacking the flocked green wallpaper of the halls proper, and the sheer number of clocks had gotten to him the few times Caliborn had decided he wanted to take Dirk home. 

He hopes Dave has been brought to the mansion just for the prearranged meetings.  Dirk knows how disturbing he himself found all the clocks ticking in asynchrony, and he doubts Dave would like it any better than he did. 

The look Jane gives him as he enters the exact unmarked door leading to Caliborn’s inner sanctum, after leading her there unerringly, suggests that he will be facing some _very_ pointed questions if they survive this. 

The room is one of the few in the Felt Mansion that is not full of clocks, and the walls themselves are paneled.  The floor is even different from usual, covered with tiles of green heliotrope.  It would easily be the most attractive part of the mansion that Dirk had seen, if he had not gotten to see why, for example, the hooks in the ceiling that the lamps hang from are sturdy enough to hold up a person’s weight. 

Caliborn is in his favorite chair, and in his lap is Dave. 

Dirk keeps himself from dropping the box and running to grab Dave, though he can see Caliborn’s claws digging slightly into Dave as he tries to get out of the cherub’s lap.  Dave always did cling to Dirk when they’d been apart a while, though he probably would grow out of it eventually… 

“Hey, Dave, it’s okay, we’re going home soon, and I’ve got AJ in the fridge and the night off…”  Dirk is pretty sure he’s earned the right to call in sick so he can dote on Dave.  He will wait until they are home and away from Caliborn to let it show how worried he has been, and to check Dave over thoroughly to make _sure_ he is unharmed.  “I’ve got the bunny, Caliborn.  Let’s trade.” 

“Give me.  The robot rabbit first.  Then you can have your.  Precious Dave Human.” 

There is a brief pause.  It’s so obviously a trap, really, but the thing is, Dirk knows he has no real choice.  He opens the box and pulls out a very stripped-down anthropomorphic rabbit chassis.  At Caliborn’s more-glare-than-usual he shrugs slightly.  “I told you, I stripped it down.  You know most of the parts are a bitch to get on Skaia.” 

That seems to be accepted, and the rabbit is grabbed from his hands.  He almost grabs for Dave, not liking having him touched by Caliborn.  He knows how Caliborn hates him, and knows what the cherub might do simply to hurt him.  He wants to get Dave back in his hands, safely out of there and inspected for any damage, so badly… 

Just not quite badly enough to give Caliborn an excuse to cause him more pain. 

“Let us take Dave and leave, now, Caliborn.  You’ve got the bunny,” you try instead. 

There is a _crunch_ as Caliborn smashes the bunny.   

“I think.  Not.” 

Even when it’s expected, feeling the trap getting sprung is like a sudden sharp drop.  Dirk knows the cherub all too well, and knows that he had been wanting to find a way to get him as a full-time lap warmer and toy.  Dirk had just never really thought that Caliborn would… 

He will never admit, later, to not having had very much of Caliborn’s halting rant about his plans for them register in that moment.  Kill Jane, keep him, raise Dave to be a minion and hostage in exchange for Dirk’s good behavior… 

He will never admit that it felt like the world dropped out from under him, like he was on the gallows, noose around his neck, instead of in Caliborn’s mansion. 

Dirk doesn’t know when two of the Felt joined them, nor where Jane had pulled a gun from, but he is thankful for the distraction.  It’s good enough that he can snatch Dave and make a run for the door. 

He holds Dave tightly to his chest as they run, almost tight enough to leave bruises, and the boy does not even struggle, knowing that Dirk is terrified and having always before thought that nothing could scare him.  Dirk focuses on keeping his body between Dave and the Felt, mind zeroed in on getting Dave out. 

(Later, Dave tells him that he took out Itchy, but he does not remember it, only Dave excitedly telling him how awesome the fight was.  Dirk can’t remember any of it, not even getting the bruises that mean he has to take a few nights off of work; the customers who do like bruises on their strippers like putting them there themselves, and so far only Caliborn had been able to force him to get into that sort of shit.) 

He doesn’t even look back to see if Jane’s shots are making any difference.  He can hear her following, and that’s good enough for him, as there are doors to be kicked open and the Felt Mansion’s maze of hallways to navigate. 

At least he knows his way out, and he is just going to trust Jane as their rearguard. 

Reaching the door to outside, only to find Eggs and Biscuits waiting for them, is another punch in the gut…   

Then Biscuits opens the door for them. 

“Take good care of Dave.” 

They run. 

==>

Dave takes being checked over in bath almost stoically.  Dirk suspects that it’s only really because Dave had missed him that he put up with it, and being hugged once it’s confirmed that he is fine. 

It’s after the hug that Dave finally gets around to complaints. 

“You gave him my bunny.” 

“It was a fake, Dave.  Remember how I’d been working on a new chassis for him?”  Dave nods.  “I put a few parts from my box of broken parts in, and gave him _that_.  But we do need to know where Li’l Seb is…” 

Dave pauses.  “My room?” 

“What?” 

==>

The story behind that comes out later: Li’l Seb, in a fit of robot bunny mischief, had turned the plush rabbit that was the inspiration for his chassis into a sort of robot fursuit.  He used it every so often to hide in Dave’s room, especially when the bunny did not want to be found easily by Dirk. 

There is a definite irony to knowing that Li’l Seb had been sitting on Dave’s bed the entire time. 

Jane had laughed, though, and mentioned that she has a friend in the forensics department who might be able to help.  He wanted the Felt caught, right…? 

==>

The benches in the hall outside of the computer forensics department (staff: Roxy Lalonde) of the Derse police department are amazingly comfortable.  It is perfectly reasonable for him to just lean back, Dave’s head resting against his chest as he waits for Jane to come back out. 

It had been a long few days, and he doesn’t blame Dave for dozing.  He wants to join Dave, truth be told. 

“They got enough from Li’l Seb to finally get a warrant for Caliborn,” Jane tells him as she sits down beside him.  “You and your son should be safe, so…” 

Dirk had, earlier, been clear about not being willing to be any help when it came to kidnapping charges against Caliborn.  That would have made Dave a witness, and bad things often happened to witnesses. But that’s not the part that catches his ear. 

“Son?” 

“Well, Dave _is_ your kid.” 

“He’s my li’l bro.  Do I _look_ old enough to have a preschool kid of my own?” 

Jane blushes.  “With your looks…” 

Dirk hesitates, before deciding that yes, that was a compliment.  “I’m just raising him, since our Mom disappeared.” 

“Oh.”  She leans a little against his shoulder, watching Dave’s steady breathing.  “So, if we got together, I wouldn’t be his stepmother.” 

“Nah, just more the Cadence to my Shining Armor.”  Jane’s confused expression is well worth it.  “I’ll show you over dinner?” 

“As long as you’re not doing it because you feel you owe me…” 

Dirk shakes his head.  “No, totally offering because I want to.” 

And for once, he doesn’t feel guilty about pursuing something he wants just because he wants it.


	10. Epilogue

### Epilogue

It’s a beautiful day, and you, Jane Crocker, have brought your half-brother John on a playdate with your boyfriend’s little brother Dave. 

You lounge together with Dirk under the shade of a tree as the boys tumble and yell and get dirt and grass stains on their jeans, chuckling at their antics. 

“So let me get this straight,” Dirk says, lazily draping his arm over your shoulder. “You and John have the same dad.” 

“Right,” you say. 

“Different moms.” 

“Mm-hmm.” 

“What I’m getting from this is your old man has some serious game.” 

You laugh and smack his arm. “That’s the last thing I want to think about!” 

“The man’s an inspiration,” Dirk says, ironic admiration clear in his voice. “I can only hope I am that active at his age.” 

“You’re disgusting.” 

“I’m an optimist. There’s a difference.” 

You grin and listen as John shouts to Dave to avoid the “nak-naks” or whatever monster it is they’re fighting. 

“Given any more thought to my proposal?” you say, and Dirk shifts. 

“I dunno,” he says. “I was more of a hindrance than a help last time.” 

“Nonsense,” you say, and pat his knee. “Y’know, with the whole sexual tension issue cleared away—” you give Dirk a moment to snort, and squeeze his leg in answer, “—I find I think more clearly around you.” 

He goes silent, which is his normal mode of operation, and you are content to let him think as the boys stab and whoosh and run around. 

“Strider and Crocker Detective Agency,” he says suddenly. “Has a nice ring to it.” 

“Crocker and Strider,” you say, grinning. “It has a better flow.” 

“Yeah, Strider and Crocker. That’s what I said.” 

You laugh and lean your head back to kiss him, both of you grinning. 

“I’m game to give it a shot,” he says, and squeezes your shoulders. 

It’s a beautiful afternoon and you think that later this evening, when the boys are watching a movie, you might snuggle with Dirk and make Moulin Rouge references about not having to put on the red light. But then, he likes it, so maybe not. After all, the stripper cover could be very useful in the future. 

“Crocker and Strider,” Dirk muses. “Underbelly of Derse, watch out. We’re coming for you.” 

“Mr. Strider,” you say, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.” 

“Miss Crocker,” he says, “I’m inclined to agree.” 

You chuckle and watch the sun make shadows through the leaves.


End file.
